


Breaking Point

by WinterWarrior



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Protective Seb, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterWarrior/pseuds/WinterWarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seb comes home to a tired, vulnerable Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this scene in my head for days, but I've never actually written fanfiction until now...so??? In my mind, Jim has an extreme duality between his 'work self' and his 'home self', so I apologize if it's too OOC for some people!

The door clicked shut softly as Seb entered the flat he shared with Jim.

"I'm home, Boss," he called quietly.

The lights were off and there wasn't any sound coming from the telly. Jim must not be home. Seb heaved a sigh and gently lowered his rifle from his shoulder, setting it carefully by the door. He'd been out all night and the day before working back to back hits, and damn if he wasn't tired, sore, and hungry. Just a quick bite to eat and he would put the rifle away. If Jim saw it sitting by the door when he came home, there would be hell to pay.  
Exhausted, Seb ran a hand through his blond hair and padded into the living room from the hallway. The dark figure sitting on the sofa nearly brought his knife to his hands, but something wasn't right.

It wasn't an intruder. It was Jim.

"Boss?" Seb asked quietly, not fully understanding the situation.

The room was dark save for a single table lamp standing alone on a side table near the sofa. And Seb was right about the telly being turned off. But other things were stranger. Jim's laptop, usually open and in the middle of four dozen emails, countless internet searches, and about three or four highly illegal transactions, was sitting on the table closed. Untouched. Jim's phone was sitting atop it, turned upside down and presumably on silent.

A full cup of tea sat beside the laptop and phone, but Seb could tell just looking at it that it had been there for a while. Meanwhile, Jim just stared into the dark, blinking every now and then but seeing nothing.  
Seb circled around to the front of the sofa to face his employer, friend, lover - who knew which Jim was right now? He waved one shy hand while running the other through his hair again and biting his lip. "Boss? ...Jim? You okay?"

Jim flicked his eyes up and met Seb's. There were dark circles under those deep brown eyes, and a lost hopelessness that melted Sebastian's heart. But shit, what was he going to do about it? The last time he had touched the consulting criminal without permission, he'd nearly lost a hand.

"'Bastian, you're home."

That was bad. Jim Moriarty did not use that nickname lightly. Seb and Sebby were common, Tiger was common when they were on a job together. But 'Bastian? That was only for quiet, intimate moments that were never spoken of in the light of day. That was for when Jim felt safe and vulnerable and Seb was more than happy to believe that for once, just for once, he was more than a murderer.

Slowly, as not to alarm the other man as one might scare an animal, Seb sank to the edge of the couch and looked into Jim's eyes.

"Yeah, I'm home. Didn't you hear me come in?"

"No, must have...must have been thinking."

"Are you okay? How about a fresh cup?" Seb asked, gesturing lazily towards the tea.

"No, I don't want any tea."

Seb shifted on the couch. A headache was starting to brew in the back of his head, right behind his eyes. Too many days with too little sleep and not enough food. With a shrug, he reached over and picked up Jim's tea, slowly sipping on it. It wasn't just cold. It was downright stale.

"How long have you been sitting here?"

Jim shrugged and seemed to sink into the plush leather of the sofa just a little deeper. "A day. Maybe more. I'm not sure." His eyes unfocused for a brief moment, then refocused when the smaller man shook his head a little.

"I...uh..." Sebastian was bad at this. He could kill a man from hundreds of yards, he could wrestle tigers into submission, he could even argue with the most dangerous criminal in the entire world and come out of it alive. Hell, he could successfully do just about anything he put his mind to. But Sebastian Moran had no idea what to say when the most dangerous man in the world was just sitting on the sofa with ice cold tea before him.

Must be a trap.

Right?

"I'm tired, 'Bastian," came Jim's voice. Shivers ran up Seb's spine as he realized that Jim's - James Moriarty's - voice had shaken. "I'm so bloody tired."

"You should...go to bed then?" A question, because Seb couldn't comprehend the statement.

"I'm tired of the Holmes brothers. I'm tired of that piss poor inspector always running amok over my operations. I'm tired of the phone going off if I so much as take an unscheduled piss. I'm tired of coming home and watching surveillance footage for nine bloody hours. I'm tired of this fucking game."

Seb shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, running a thumb over the scar. No. Jim Moriarty was never tired. Jim Moriarty was brilliant. Jim Moriarty was happy on rare occasions. Sometimes, Jim Moriarty was vulnerable and just needed a snog or a snuggle or a good fuck.

But Jim Moriarty was never tired. And he was never tired of the game.

"Ah, you don't mean that," Seb said lightly, trying to ease the sudden tension in the room.

"I do mean it. At least, I mean it right now." Without warning, the smaller man pitched forward in his seat, his forehead coming to rest right on Seb's knee. Then, he just stayed there, breathing deeply.

The sniper froze. No amount of adorable (could he even use that word?) consulting criminal would make the situation any less dangerous. But... But this was different.

This wasn't consulting criminal James Moriarty and best damn sniper in Her Majesty's army Colonel Sebastian Moran.

This was Jim and 'Bastian. Just two men facing down the world together, one hero at a time.

Hesitant and altogether afraid, Seb gently placed a hand on Jim's back. The tension in the muscles under his fingertips was worrying, so he gently rubbed back and forth, just trying to soothe.

"You need a holiday."

"What's a holiday?"

"Are you serious? A holiday, a fucking white sand beach and endless cocktails and naked men and women wading in very blue, very clear waters. A place where you don't get mobile reception no matter where you go or whom you bribe. A hol-i-day."

"I don't need naked men and women."

"You're missing the point."

Jim sighed and rolled his head so that his ear pressed into Sebastian's thigh and his face looked toward the blank television. The sniper just sighed and reached over, careful not to squash the man most capable of destroying him, and wrestled Jim's feet onto the couch so that he was laying down. The fingers of his other hand trailed restlessly in his lover's dark hair.

"So," Seb said quietly, clearing his throat thoughtfully, "what brought all this on?"

It took Jim a moment to speak, but when he did, the words chilled the air in the room. "There was a breach in security in one of my more...delicate operations. Lost the whole job thanks to Sherlock and his pet. Had it been anything else, I would have been able to stop it from happening and beat Sherlock at the same time."

"Was this the Moscow thing?"

"You know about that, 'Bastian?"

"You didn't hire me for nothing."

Jim made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, and Seb could detect the man he was familiar with trying to creep back. Oh well. A few more scars wouldn't ruin the sniper's good looks. Seb shifted a little and rearranged the other man's head more comfortably on his lap before stretching out a knee and placing a foot on the table.

"Get your foot off the table."

"Make me."

Another noncommittal sound came from the criminal. For a few minutes, the two just existed in their flat in silence, letting the minutes tick away.

For Sebastian's part, he worried about what to do. He was a bodyguard, a thug, a murderer. Since when did he become a protector and guardian? Enemies of the consulting criminal knew that to mess with James Moriarty meant to mess with Sebastian Moran. Those were real threats, physical threats. All real, physical threats could be taken care of with a bullet or with fists or with a call to just the right person at just the right time.

But tiredness? Weariness? What sort of enemies were those that snuck in through the window at night and leeched off of whatever bright life forces it found? Seb didn't know what to do for once, and the man he would normally call and ask was the victim this time.

"'Bastian?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"I didn't mean it, you know."

"I know. You've got an unhealthy obsession with that man."

There was a brief silence before: "I know."

Ah, shit.

"You haven't been drinking, have you, babe?"

"You know I don't drink. Why?"

"Just wondering." Sebastian idly scratched at the scars on his face with his free hand, the other still trailing gently in Jim's dark, now unruly hair.

"Hey, 'Bastian?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"You really think a holiday would be good for us?"

"Of course I do. Normal people have holidays. Normal people get away from the stress every now and then. It's the disappearing thing that normal people can't do.Luckily, you have resources that they don't."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. We'll take a holiday. I'll book it in the morning."

Seb blinked into the dark room. Well, that was a change. But then, Jim was like that. One moment he was more vicious than a feral dragon, the next he was smirking at how much better he was than you. And sometimes, just sometimes, he was booking a holiday for two work-worn, weary men.

Seb smiled and leaned his head back against the sofa. In the morning, he would probably get a lecture at the very least, poison in his tea at the most, for allowing Jim to be normal, just for a few minutes.

Even genius consulting criminals needed a little rest.


End file.
